Secret to Burn
by xdarkangeltwinsx
Summary: The heart is easily susceptible to hurt and malice. Two souls have fallen from grace and reach out to each other from the depths of their pain. What is suicide really, but to leave the one you love behind for a better place hoping you'll see her there?
1. Daddy's Little Girl

Everyone has secrets, right? Things they wish to hide, light on fire, bury in their back yard and forget about for the rest of their lives? Memories, material things, incidents, the like.

My secret to burn is my father.

For many girls my age, their father is a fundamental role in their childhood: he teaches them their first words, takes them to their first ballet lesson, gives them the ability to laugh, to forgive, and to love. For me, Daddy was a monster. My own personal little demon. A hateful memory waiting for me when I got home from school.

When I was younger, I didn't know the things he was doing were wrong. I just thought he loved me more than Mommy. When he stumbled into my darkened room at night, his breath exuding whiskey, Daddy would whisper, "She doesn't love me like you do, my little flower. My little angel." And he would kiss me right on the lips, his beer-stained mouth tainting my own.

I can't even remember when it first started. Probably right around the time I started elementary school, when, on my initial day of first grade, he whispered ever so softly, yet ever so audibly, "Don't leave me, little girl. I don't want to be alone." At the time, in my six-year old innocence, giggled and replied, "Silly Daddy. I won't ever leave you."

This he seemed to take to heart, because that was the first night he came to my room. The details are a little fuzzy, as this was more than five years ago, but the pain stands out vividly in my mind. Waves of pain crashing over me, beating against me like the sea upon the shores.

My studies later brought me to know that pain was merely a perception, like sight or smell, and involves sensitivity to chemical changes in the brain, which interprets that the change is harmful, but the pain my father inflicted on me seemed so much more. It ripped me from the inside out and sat there when I was forced to keep my dirty little secret. I remember the second or third time Daddy visited my room, in the middle of first grade, there were bruises on my arms. Bruises: little windows into painful memories. Wishing that no one could see my bruises for fear of what Daddy would do to me, I hid my wounds behind books. Thousands of books I read, distracting my teachers and peers from the purple marks on my face, arms, and torso.

Now that it's the summer before secondary school, I'm eleven, and Daddy visits me more now than ever. Mommy's always away at work, often until nine or ten at night. In his loneliness, Daddy resorts to hard liquor, usually taking with him to his bedroom a whole bottle at a time. At night, I try my best to please him so he won't hurt me. When he does hurt me, I cry. I cry long and loud, because it hurts so much. It hurts, and God won't kill me and put me out of my misery. Daddy hurts me even more when I cry, telling me to shut up and that big girls don't cry when their fathers love them.

Right now, I'm dreading that moment when he walks in my doorway. Twenty-four steps from the living room to his bedroom, twenty-four drunken staggers. And twelve to mine. I count.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten

Eleven.

Twelve.

The footsteps stop outside my closed door, and I can practically smell the whiskey on his breath from my bed. I pray, pray to whatever God is up there, that he won't hurt me tonight. We learned about God in school, and He seems to be a nice, albeit unrealistic, concept. If there was a God, He wouldn't let bad things happen to good girls like me.

Tonight is the last night of summer. Warm and saturated with the scent of cookouts and the last of the season's azaleas, a bittersweet combination, it's too perfect a night to be ruined by him.

But my prayer seems to have been delayed on its way to heaven. Because my door opens, and my room is filled with the light of the hallway, save for the slouched silhouette of my demon. The floor creaks as he tiptoes to my bed, and I feel his sweaty body settle beneath the covers next to my own.

"Hey, little girl. Are you still young enough to be Daddy's little flower?"

My breath catches in my throat, and I'm almost unable to choke out, "Yes, Daddy."

"Good."

He's silent for a while, and I let out a silent sigh of relief, comforted by the small hope that he's fallen asleep. But my hope is short-lived, because Daddy soon turns over onto his side to stare into my eyes.

"You're so beautiful, Herme. And oh so smart. Daddy wishes you were his forever."

In the darkness, I could sense his tainted lips searching for my own. In a primal effort to stop his advances, my lips unconsciously tucked themselves into my mouth.

"Baby, why are you hiding from me? Don't you love me?" he groaned.

"I'm not hiding, Daddy, I'm just tired."

His groping fingers found the hem of my nightgown, pulling it up to my neck, letting himself explore my premature, naked body. When my hands stop him from pulling off my underwear, he grows angry.

"She never loved me! And now you don't love me!"

"I do love you, Daddy, I do!"

"Then show me, Herme, show me that you love me."

No daughter should ever have to go through this, and I know this even at my tender age. But even as my body screams and protests to his advances, I can't bring myself to fight back. I can't bring myself to make him stop hurting me, make him stop kissing underneath my panties, make him stop biting me where I scream.

When he's done, he redresses and exits the room, still staggering a little. I try to cover my naked body with the blanket, try to piece back the shreds of my underwear, try to piece back the fragments of myself he has torn away. No amount of cleansing can undo the sin that I now bear.

So I hide the bruises behind books, hide scars beneath pretty little sun dresses, and hide tears beneath a picture-day smile. But underneath this façade is a girl who wants to cry real tears and be held and comforted by a real Daddy.

----------------------------------

"Herme, get the mail."

Mommy's not home again, it's just me and Daddy. Daddy and me. Daddy and I.

For once, he's not piss-drunk. He's just sitting at the table with the newspaper in one hand and a bagel in the other, expecting the mail at his place. It's too early for whiskey anyway, only 8:32 in the morning.

The mail sits in a cute little pile underneath the mail slot, and as I pick it up, my eye catches my name on a corner sticking out.

The envelope is a strange material, old parchment, or the like. The address is unfamiliar, and everything appears to be written in emerald-green ink.

My name, Hermione Granger, is on the inside, too. So it's not a mistake. The letter reads:

_Dear Ms. Granger,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

_Students shall be required to report to the Chamber of Reception upon arrival, the date for which shall be duly advised._

_Please ensure that the utmost attention be made to the list of requirements attached herewith._

_We very much look forward to receiving you as a part of the new generation of Hogwarts' heritage._

_Professor Minerva McGonagall_

I had to read the letter several times. Could this be a cruel prank? My father's yell, still wanting the mail, interrupted my reverie. I walked in a daze to hand his waiting hand the remainder of the letters.

Real or not, this was my ticket out of this suburban hell. God had finally answered my prayers. I didn't care if Daddy would miss me. He could chase the train all the way to Hogwarts, and I could care less.

Either way, I was leaving my demons behind and never looking back.


	2. Oh, Those Pesky Little Secrets

**DISCLAIMER: DON'T OWN HARRY POTTER, OR, MORE SPECIFICALLY, DRACO AND HERMIONE. Why am I still doing this?**

**As per many requests, 'Secret to Burn' has a second chapter! Originally, I intended for this to be a one-shot, but so many people asked for a second chapter that I, being the nice person I am, just HAD to do it!**

**Luvs ya'll!!**

**~Michi**

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Ah, scissors. Wonderful things. These little tools can just slit through anything: paper, fabric... skin.

But scissors can be messy, as I learned from personal experience. No, razors are much more efficient. The bloodstains just wash right off under warm water, while scissors take absolutely forever, remaining pink-tinged for weeks.

Razors, ironically, take the pain away. Just the rending of anxious skin beneath that velvety steel instantly calms the demons shrieking inside my conscience. Just the ebb and flow of the crimson river that stubbornly keeps me alive gives me an amatory excitement stemming from within.

Today, the demons shriek louder. They gnaw at my conscience, begging me to take that silvery piece of heaven and release. I can feel my blood beneath the fabric of my shirt itching to get out, to explore the bottom of the sink in the bathroom adjoined to my chambers. It burns erotically, and I drink in its despair, yearning along with it for the razor and the pain that came with it.

My demons, one could say, originally stemmed from a simple picture. This portrait hangs over the humble Malfoy mantle, boasting three figures: my father, the esteemed Lord Lucius Malfoy who has more secrets than any Muggle political figure; my mother, the beautiful Lady Narcissa Malfoy who is a suppressed flower when in public, but behind closed doors, yearns for the pleasure that is denied to her by my father.

Then, there's me. Mummy's little boy. Her little treasure. Her own personal punching bag when Daddy ignores her advances.

The little slut.

Sandwiched between my parents in the portrait, I should be happy. I should be overjoyed at the prospect of standing for hours while a fool of an artist paints my family the Muggle way, with paints and a brush, in a stifling tuxedo and a cummerbund more deadly than an anaconda. But the Malfoy clan is far from happy, because we all have our own little secrets to burn.

Now, I know big boys shouldn't have security objects (my baby blanket was incinerated when I was four and a half), but the smooth sliver of steel concealed beneath my pillow is the closest thing I have to stability in my life. Does it hurt when I cut myself? No. In fact, I feel most alive when I indulge. I feel that I am still human, not just a pretty porcelain doll, that can still experience pain. By slicing my glass walls with my treasured metal, I am differentiated from the cold plastic toys my parents have become.

But I can't answer its call now. I must sit here, perfectly still, as my blood froths within me like an animal in heat. I must remain a doll for ten minutes longer until I can release my demons.

"So, Draco, how's school?"

I'm sure that I visibly jumped about an inch or two out of my seat. Mrs. Watkins is old and tends to talk rather loudly, as I have noticed over the years, so it is not too surprising when she startles me out of my reverie to ask another stupid question.

With my voice dripping with false sweetness and sincerity, I muster up the strength to respond, "I'm not in school right now, Mrs. Watkins. It's August." Underneath my mother's antique cherry tea table, my fingers clench until the knuckles are even whiter than before.

"Oh, that's funny, dear. I could have sworn it was October. You're fifteen, right? So you'll be in your fifth year at Hogwarts, then?"

"Yes."

I smile as profoundly as I can, secretly waiting for the day the old coot dies. It is to my understanding that Narcissa only associates with her because we are written up in her will for an insane amount of money.

"Draco, why don't you ask Adelia about her cats? You used to be fascinated with them when you were younger." Narcissa says sweetly, no doubt concealing an inner threat beneath her pale eyes.

Oh dear God. Not the cats. Please, anything but the cats.

"Yeah, Mrs. Watkins, how are your cats? You had fourteen last time we met, correct?"

"Oh, yes, Draco. But since then, Swifty caught rabies, so we had to put him to sleep, and to replace him, I got Anneliese, Grumpy, Dopey, Sleepy, Happy, Sneezy, Bashful, Doc..."

Ah, so we were on a Snow White kick, huh?

"... and Brad Pitt. I swear, he looks exactly like him! Let me show you a picture..." she continued, bending over to sift around in her enormous old lady bag, awarding me with a wonderful view of her huge, pasty butt and... was that a tramp stamp?

I can take it no longer. The pale light of Narcissa's garden room seem to be closing in on me to the extent that my lungs have difficulty taking in air.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Watkins, but I, uh, have something to do. May I be excused?"

The old woman turns around sluggishly, as if just now noticing that I was unwell. "You seem a little flushed, dear. Maybe you're coming down with Lizard Flu. Oh, did I tell you about the time when poor Simon caught the Lizard Flu?" she says, turning back to Narcissa. "He was vomiting everywhere. Poor thing had diarrhea for days..."

I take this opportunity to run to my room, practically flying up the stairs. The singing of metal rings in my ears, seeming to emanate from its secret hideaway.

I don't take another breath until I'm safely locked in my bathroom with the shard of iron gripped tightly in my fingers. I shed my clothing and stand naked in front of the mirror, assessing the body I have been given. Contrasting to my belief of vanity, my body is quite below par. I am pale all over, without a tan, and appear exactly like the china doll façade that I wish to break free of. My chest is small and lacks the toned muscles of an avid Quidditch player; my arms hang limply at my sides. In the harsh light of the washroom, I look like a corpse. The only object of beauty on my person is the reflective steel razor in my hand. It catches the light, causing the refracted illumination to dance on the smooth silver.

It's beautiful.

I am not beautiful. I am not perfect. Never was, never will be. I must have this small shard of perfection inside me so that I may have its loveliness.

Still naked, I climb into the pristine white bathtub. Honestly, I have no idea to this day how it has stayed so white with the number of times my blood has stained it. Today, it will be pink-tinged again. Sorry, bathtub.

Taking a deep breath, I ease the point into the soft flesh of my wrist, asking it to bite a little deeper, gnaw a little harder, giving in at last to the hot scarlet rush.

It's delicious.

People think I'm crazy for doing this to myself, that I am pain obsessed. They're right. I am crazy. I am pain obsessed. But there is more than just a two-dimensional need to make myself bleed. There is a primal desire that goes farther beyond me, Draco Malfoy, sitting in his bathtub, to a lust for crimson heat that dates back to when Man took his first steps across the sun-baked earth. A simple truth: Man loves to kill. Whether it is himself or his neighbor, there will always be someone to die.

Salazar Slytherin knew this when he joined the other co-founders of Hogwarts. He knew, even though the others said he was wrong, that there was always room for one more person to die in this world, whether they were strong or weak. He made sure it would be the weak Muggle-borns with no lineage that died instead of the strong Pure-blooded, such as himself. Salazar Slytherin is the only man I will ever respect.

To show the god of Slytherin my loyalty, I make incisions everywhere on my body: my thin chest, my feeble arms, my ugly face, my cursed hands, my legs. They are offerings to show my understanding.

Perhaps I am the only one who will ever understand.

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**Aaaaaaand, we're done with the second chapter! *yawn* Okay, it's late. It is officially Michi's bedtime...**

**R&R, if you really have to. I'm not pushing you at all. Nope...**

**~Michi**


	3. Reunion

**DISCLAIMER: IF I OWNED HARRY POTTER, WOULD I REALLY BE ANONYMOUSLY POSTING THESE CHAPTERS? HELL, I WOULD HAVE MY OWN THEME PARK IF I OWNED HARRY POTTER.**

**So, third chapter! Yay! I have some good news for y'all: the final chapter of Secret to Burn is currently in my noggin, so this story won't go all over the place and end with a raspberry noise, as so many of my other stories have.**

**~Michi**

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Smile and nod, Hermione. That's it. Play along, like everything's alright. Give them all a taste of what they want to hear. Smart, genius Hermione back for another year at Hogwarts with her friends. Perfect little Hermione Granger who never breaks the rules returns to keep concealed the lies beneath her mask.

Confession would make everything better, my heart says. People would understand. After all, it happens to at least sixty percent of children all around the world.

No, people wouldn't understand. A girl my age, in her fifth year of school, who has already lost her virginity, to her own flesh and blood, no less. I'm a slut: soul tainted black from the inside out with un-desired pleasure. I'm a coward: too afraid to open up to the friends that are supposedly by my said each and every day.

Harry and Ron. Would they understand?

Harry, too, was victim of abuse, but not the kind I suffered from for eleven years. He was quick to judge, often jumping to the wrong conclusion. Would he see me for the story my demons told, or for the damaged soul inside of me?

Ron. The receiver of my unrequited love. Since the day he was my unlikely savior from a nasty mountain troll back in first year, I felt something for him I could feel for no other. Yes, I loved Harry also, but it was a different kind of affection. I could embrace him easily without fear of rejection, for he was my angel, my kindred spirit. If Ron found out my dirty little secret, would this be the end of our friendship? Would he truly lose all respect for me, or had he already?

Would I lose all respect for myself?

Today of all days, the first day of term back at Hogwarts, hints at so many things; unclear as the hazy fog that fenced my demons in around me. This could be the year that all my secrets would unravel themselves like blood-soaked yarn, each sticking to the next until the whole spool was undone.

One thing is certain: this will not be a term to forget.

The clichéd term bounces around in my head as I rattle around in Dad's old hunk of metal that barely passes for a car. The motorway is surprisingly crowded at ten thirty in the morning. I dread the packed sardine feeling of crowds at King's Cross Station, clutching my old, worn copy of _Hogwarts: A History_. It serves as a sort of security blanket, being my only proof during the summer that I am going to a better place.

King's Cross Station looms ahead of us, and my father parks the car in a space close to the entrance of the station. Unfortunately, on my side, someone's strawberry milkshake had slipped from their hands and met its untimely demise on the cracked asphalt at my feet.

"Why do you keep reading that bloody book?" Daddy slurs from the front seat. Although he knew he was driving me to the station this morning and could get in serious trouble if he was caught, he still couldn't resist the call of the single-malt whiskey that he had shoved down his throat before we had gotten into the car.

"It's not a bloody book, Daddy. It's, um, homework from over the summer that I haven't completed yet." My quick lie does not burn my lips as so many others have. Should I feel guilty for sinning against my father? Was God even still watching my every move?

Daddy snorts in disgust, proving that my lie wasn't all that effective. "Hermione Jean Granger," he begins, using my full name, "there's never any summer homework that you haven't completed by this point. Give me the book."

I hug the book closer to my chest. "No."

"Give me the book." His tone is louder this time, not unlike the growl of a wildcat from deep within his chest, and I start to waver.

"N-no." I repeat, holding the book so tight to my bosom that the corners cut into my skin through the fabric of my shirt.

I never knew why he took my only object of sanctuary. Maybe he just wanted a bit of light reading before bed (highly unlikely. He barely graduated college, so why would he want a two thousand three hundred and forty-two page book?), or maybe he thought that by taking away this piece of literature I highly regarded that I would fall farther, like an insect, into his web of control. All I knew was that, when I got out of the car, a feeling of despair had replaced the one of hope in my being, and Daddy had recently acquired a new book, still warm from my embrace.

As expected, King's Cross Station is another synonym for crowded. It's pretty easy for my father, as well as a few strangers, to cop a feel, unintentional or not. He drops me off between Platforms Nine and Ten without so much as a goodbye, instead opting for a dignified strut out of my line of vision, _Hogwarts: A History_ still tucked beneath his arm.

Determined not to look back, I pick up the remainder of my books and my dignity and push the heavy trolley carrying my trunk into the gateway of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. The feeling of anxiety and anticipation for the new year returns as my eyes feast on the sight of the brilliant red engine of the Hogwarts Express, shiny and new as the first day I saw it. I can't help but smile at the comfort that engulfs me. This will be a great year, Daddy or no Daddy, _Hogwarts: A History _or no _Hogwarts: A History._

My mood grows even better as Harry and Ron run toward me. Harry seems to look a little less emaciated this year; maybe he spent the summer at the Burrow, or maybe the Dursleys have decided to be a little more humane with the help of a certain someone's magic wand? Ron's hair, if it is even possible, has grown even more auburn than before. I resist the urge to run my fingers through it, to inspect each and every one of his freckles to determine that they have retained the perfect ovular shape that many other speckles have not.

"Harry, Ron! Good to see you!" My body is smushed in a giant group hug between the three of us, stirring up the twinge of the bruises from last night's "rendezvous" with Daddy. Why, oh why, does his memory have to follow me everywhere?

We remain like that on the platform: three kindred spirits without secrets nor jealousy permeating our alliance, and it is at that moment that I wish we could remain like that forever.

But sooner or later, old demons tend to catch up with you.

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**And we're done! Next chapter should be up in the next few days. Again, reviews are appreciated (Eight reviews in two days!!! I'm so proud of you guys!!!!!), as always. This is not a subliminal message at all. Nope...**

**~Michi**


	4. He Used to be Such a Good Boy

**DISCLAIMER: NO HARRY POTTER OWNAGE TO BE FOUND HERE.**

**Okay, okay, I know I will soon have rabid Harry Potter readers on my butt for this because I haven't updated since 2009. But, hey, it's a new year! 2010, baby! My New Year's Resolution: update more (especially Faceless, Secret to Burn, and Sinless because those are fairly popular), attempt to keep 'A' in Geometry... and lose a few pounds (shh! You didn't hear it from me!)...**

**~Michi**

* * *

Blood.

Liquid.

Crimson.

Molten drops of essential rubies; trickling, trickling.

How do you describe ecstasy? Is it the dictionary definition: an overwhelming feeling of great joy or excitement? Or is it something more, something that goes beyond dusty pages of long-forgotten tomes and moth-eaten binding, becoming one with living flesh? Is it the sensation of power surging through your veins, of feeling like mountains could crumble to dust beneath your feet? Or is it the thrill of first love, of knowing that there is someone who draws the very breath from your lungs, steals every beat of your heart, and catches you when you stumble across that leap of faith?

How do you describe happiness? Is it a sense of warmth that begins at the core of a soul, spreads to the heart, and radiates outward from the eyes and lips of those who know it? Is it being able to sit down with loved ones and know that you, as an individual, are valuable? Or is it being able to cry and know that others cry with you, even when times are bleak, and sense that you are never alone?

To me, happiness and ecstasy are not interchangeable. I have experienced ecstasy many times, felt it running down my wrists, felt it pooling in my eyes.

But I have never once in my life experienced happiness.

* * *

Ecstasy comes once again the day before I leave for Hogwarts. It bites at my flesh and steals the white from the sink in my bathroom, staining it vermilion.

I can't help but smile to myself. The razor, no matter how dull and blood-stained it is, always manages to lure me back into its arms. I am a slave to the monster of my own lust, begging for the gratification of pain, pleading for the erotic waltz that thrums through my blood. And I realize that I am going insane. Already, weeks and months of the monster's sick, tormenting game has left me pale and stormy-eyed. My hair, once shiny and lustrous, is now subdued and flat, clinging in somber strands to my scalp. My eyes were once a valiant gray and tinged with the light of life, but are now haunted by ghosts unseen to those around me. And it's true; I do hear voices that I can't be sure of the source, whether outside my head, or inside. They call to me, laugh at me, tempt me to make myself one with the steel. They beg me to take the steel and soak it with blood other than my own.

'It's easy.', they say. 'So easy. Just take it. Yes, that's it. Your father, sitting in that chair over there: his throat is so white and clean. It annoys you, doesn't it? You want to stain it red, want to put some color in this drab household. Your mother: so quiet and smothered. Don't you want to make her scream? Make her voice fill the air. Hear it in your ears and relish the terror spattering it with crimson. Do it... Do it...'

I must be insane. There's no other explanation for it. I am living in my own personal hell, plagued by demons and monsters that feast on my flesh in the form of a simple razor.

Yet I enjoy every minute of it.

I know they know. I know they know that I know. They must know. I hear what they whisper behind closed doors, behind smiles that never reach cold eyes. I've seen them at Mother's parties: ladies dressed in corsets that make it a feat to swallow (gasp!) a whole bite of tea cake, men in dress robes that compliment eyes swallowed in shadows. The gentlemen pat Father on the arm in sympathy, while the ladies muster glistening eyes of crocodile tears and vaguely sympathetic looks around face-paralyzing Youth potions. But they all say the same damned thing:

"He used to be such a good boy."

'Where did he go wrong?', they probably think. Oh, he just took a wrong turn at Memory Lane and went barreling down into Sin City.

And they always refer to me as 'he'. Like I don't have a name anymore. Like I don't deserve one now that my dirty little secret is a little more obvious than theirs. I am treated like the family head case (not that I'm not); words are spoken softly and directly, isolation is increased dramatically. But never once am I reassured that everything will be okay. Never once has someone said that they would cry with me, that I wasn't alone.

But I am alone, then and now. Now and always.

Alone with the blade.

* * *

School was always one of the tensions that ran down the sink drain along with the rest of the crimson river. School was where I was pressured to maintain the façade of a Slytherin: cool, level-headed, and emotionless. Many Slytherins accomplish this itinerary on their own, but I find help within the sharp slope of the blade. Only now that the teachers pay attention to each individual student, it gets harder and harder to conceal the bloody bandages beneath my robes.

Tonight is the last night of summer. Tomorrow, school starts and I am to be sent off on the Hogwarts Express. I am to be expected to wave to my parents until their figures are left in the shadow of the train's piercing whistle, expected to cherish my parent's last gift until the new school year: a kiss.

A kiss. A glass kiss: fragile, yet cold without touching the skin. A glass kiss is like ice, except ice can be melted when exposed to warmth. My mother's kisses remain molded in the shape of a perfect heart, never to be melted for the recipient to enjoy, useless forevermore.

What is the point of a glass kiss? I'm not sure myself, but I suppose it is to keep up appearances. Woe be to the Malfoy clan if someone were to find out that we are not perfect.

Perfection, like happiness, can never be achieved by any mortal of this earth.

* * *

**So, something to portray Draco's psychotic-ness? Is that even a word? But I hope y'all enjoy!**

**~Michi**


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